


Shoulder The Sky

by TeaCub90



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angsty Schmoop, Canonical Character Death, Endeavour Morse Whump, Friendship, Gen, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Lovely Max, Mental Anguish, Morse breaks down, Post-Season/Series 06, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 12:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19768198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90
Summary: Morse just shakes his head from side to side, face scrunched up, combs his hands frantically through his hair and that’s how Max knows he’s missing something; can hear it in the stomping thuds against his carpet that echo through to the wood beneath, can hear the roar of all of Morse’s vital organs right beneath the surface of his skin, rising up in some kind of revolution, leaving him to fall apart from the inside out.





	Shoulder The Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, boy, this was a challenging one to write and it turned out to be longer than I expected. Spoilers for Series 5 and 6, mentions of violence, and as per, Endeavour does not belong to me; it's property of ITV. Unbeta'ed, so all mistakes are mine.

* * *

‘I was awful.’ Morse leans forward on the sofa, his head in his hands, hiding darkened eyes from too many days’ work and nowhere near enough sleep. ‘To George. I was so _bad_ to him, Max.’

‘Oh, Morse.’ Max sighs heavily, sits down beside him on the sofa with a glass of water, rubbing his own forehead; a few days since his ordeal at Jago’s hands, and he still bears the marks, scars at the corners of his eyes, still sore, still stiff in his movements and still signed off by the Home Office until further notice. His duties as a doctor, however, are still ongoing. ‘My dear chap, don’t do this to yourself.’

He reaches out to place a comforting hand on his shoulder – only to have it shrugged off as Morse surges to his feet, moves away from him; can’t be still, won’t be, has been pacing up and down Max’s cottage for half-an-hour now, hands shaking, hair a complete mess, eyes wild with something only he can see; the spectre at the feast, his own personal bloody Banquo. A far cry from the courageous, collected detective who knowingly walked into a salivating death-trap just days ago; who called reassurance to Max, trussed up in the back of that van, promising him deliverance from his ordeal.

‘I can’t…’ He shakes his head, covers his eyes with trembling hands, ‘I can’t _do_ anything else. I can’t…’ He grips his hair, shuffles on the spot in clear distress, looking in very real danger of setting fire to Max’s carpet by pacing alone, his toes twitching in mismatching socks. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘Drink this, for a start,’ Max offers the water; it’s accepted, but not drunk beyond a small sip, which is something, although it’s not ideal. The liquid moves in clear cylinders inside the glass with the tremor of Morse’s fingers and Max winces to think of what’s going on inside that magnificent brain right now. In the past, in the early days of their acquaintance, he would sometimes entertain himself with the fanciful notion of what might happen if Sherlock Holmes stepped off the pages of one of Conan Doyle’s novels and went face to face with the errant young detective in front of him. It had proven to be quite an amusing daydream.

Now though, all he sees is the other man’s anguish, his frustration, his anxiety, cutting him right down to the bone.

‘Morse,’ he says slowly; they’re both still experiencing it all, the aftermath of everything, but right now one of them has to try to be rational and as per, according to half-a-dozen years’ experience, that person is him. ‘Perhaps you should sit down.’

‘Do you know what I did?’ Morse challenges, raising his head abruptly to meet his gaze, his eyes wide and wounded. ‘I tried to forget about him. George. I spent months and months running from that – that memory, that moment we found him and when I was trying to – to,’ he makes a haphazard gesture of resuscitation in mid-air. ‘I couldn’t bring him back.’

‘Oh, Morse, he was already gone, old chap,’ Max wobbles to his feet; aches and pains from being trussed up overnight are still making themselves known, but his determination to reach Morse is greater. ‘There is absolutely nothing you could’ve done. He was already beyond helping. You tried,’ he inches closer, holding out a hand between them, ‘you tried your best. You did everything you could.’

‘No,’ Morse draws a hand down over his face. ‘I didn’t. I really didn’t – I could’ve done more. When he was alive,’ His voice is muffled by his own palms, as though it’s an admission he doesn’t want to make, but has to, ‘Done more by him. I know, I know the if-game’s no good, Thursday’s told me time and time again, but you know how I spoke to him, you know what I did. What I was like.’

‘Oh, Morse, I was sharp with him too,’ Max consoles. _‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,’_ he recites gently but it has the opposite effect to what’s intended; rather than reassuring Morse, it just seems to make things worse.

‘No,’ his voice trembles; his hold around the tumbler is so tight it might just break, ‘no, you – you don’t understand, I…’ His mouth falls open, forming half-shapes around soundless words. ‘It’s my fault, I…’

‘Morse,’ Max pushes, quietly appalled and still unable to comprehend just exactly what’s going on, why Morse seems so determined to shoulder such guilt. ‘What happened to George was nothing to do with you. You may have been firm with him, but that’s no reason to blame yourself.’ Perhaps _firm_ is too kind a word for what Morse was to George; _consistently abrupt and altogether rather irritable_ comes much closer to the mark but right now, the young detective could clearly do with a little gentleness, for all the good it’s doing.

Morse just shakes his head from side to side, face scrunched up, combs his hands frantically through his hair and that’s how Max knows he’s missing something; can hear it in the stomping thuds against his carpet that echo through to the wood beneath, can hear the roar of all of Morse’s vital organs right beneath the surface of his skin, rising up in some kind of revolution, leaving him to fall apart from the inside out. 

‘Morse,’ he orders. ‘Talk to me. Please.’

There’s a split second where he finds himself on the receiving end of a wondering, slurred stare from those vivid blue eyes and then Morse takes another sip of water, small, like his voice when he finally speaks.

‘I was unkind,’ he isn’t looking at Max, but instead at Max’s family photographs on the mantlepiece, the pictures of his niece, shyly smiling out from the frames, happily oblivious to the torment in the room. ‘I could’ve just – been there for him, like I was supposed to be – but – the last thing I did was insult him. He – he thought I was – Trewlove and I – he didn’t like us being undercover together. At the school.’ He squeezes the bridge of his nose, breathes out, trying to get his words in order. ‘Tried to square up with me. I – it was the last straw and I snapped at him. I _snapped_ at him, Max, I told him to get it together, to be a better detective. And that was the last thing I ever said to him. The absolute last thing.’

Ah. Max blinks, nods, chews on his mouth, not entirely surprised and even feeling an odd sort of relief at the revelation, given the sheer, obvious depth of Morse’s inner torment. It makes sense, he supposes; the two men were polar opposites in many ways, George’s simpler intellect clashing like a mis-sized cylinder to Morse’s own remarkable mind. There was bound to be some sort of verbal spat sooner or later; Max could always feel it brewing, could sense Morse’s frustration whenever they visited him for a post-mortem meeting in the mortuary, the way he held himself separate, George’s own boyish energy clearly rubbing his own, quiet determination right up the wrong way. Of course it would have come out over their favourite WPC, with her smile and sparkling wit; Max can’t help but feel slightly amused, even touched by the prospect of George willing to prove his worth to her. It would have been rather like watching a Labrador puppy take on a fully-grown, red-headed canine with a sharp, hidden bite.

 _‘If here today the cloud of thunder lours,’_ he muses. _‘Tomorrow it will hie on far behest._ There are worse things, Morse,’ he offers comfortingly, tilting his head, face still lined with the evidence of his kidnap ordeal, ‘And George did _rather_ dote on Trewlove, I remember. Pub-outings with the two of them did rather make one feel as though they’d just stepped into one of Walt Disney’s more romantic cinematic features; all that was missing was the mandatory musical montage.’

He smiles sadly, thinking of George, flirtatious and adoring; the crinkles at the corner of Trewlove’s clever, dark eyes, laughed at his heartfelt attempts to make an impression, yet slow to look away. Catching them kissing behind the pub when he nipped out for a smoke, their unrepentant smiles in the dark; George’s sheepish, bitten lip as he shrugged, looking caught and more than happy about it. What they might have been, had he lived…

He sighs, feeling ever-so-slightly wretched at the unfairness of it all, at the loss of such promise, of such an innocent and eager soul – before suddenly realising that Morse is staring at him, uncomprehending; completely still, in fact, as though he’s stopped breathing altogether and Max finds himself wondering if the chap has even heard a word he’s just said.

‘But,’ when Morse’s mouth finally moves, it’s rather like watching a car shift back into gear, ‘…if I hadn’t said those things to him, then…maybe he wouldn’t be dead.’

Max blinks, brow furrowing; wonders if the saga at the quarry had some sort of effect on his hearing, or just sent him completely mad where years in the Home Office and trying to keep Morse on the medically appropriate straight and narrow with limited success have completely failed to do so. ‘I’m _sorry?’_

‘He was ambitious,’ Morse pushes, his tone heavy, thick with its own accusation, ‘He wanted to prove himself, he always wanted to prove himself. I – I told him that if he made more of an effort and focused, he could be a better detective and it was most likely the thing that pushed him over the edge, made him more determined – determined enough to wander into a death-trap. I drove him to it. So, you see, it _is_ my fault,’ chest heaving, he meets Max’s gaze and his eyes – his eyes are as shattered as broken windows. ‘If I hadn’t said it, then...he’d probably still be alive.’

Max feels his heart plummet – at the resigned tone in Morse’s voice, at his own uncontested certainty and suddenly, he _understands._

‘Oh, Morse, _no.’_ He strides forwards and before Morse can shy away, flee to be alone with the weight of his own convictions, Max’s hands fasten themselves to both his elbows, doing his best to keep him from running, the sergeant shaking under his palms.

‘You can’t think that,’ he pushes, lowering his voice, attempting to be as calm as he can in the circumstances because how could Morse _ever_ believe…? ‘Morse, you can’t… Look, come on,’ he orders roughly, a lump in his own throat that he swallows, feeling the need to keep it together for the detective’s sake and putting an arm around him, guides him back to sit on the sofa.

Morse goes, almost limp, letting himself be led, drops down as heavy as a stone as Max resumes his position beside him, watches him hunch over his knees, as though ashamed to look up. As though he’s just released something that’s consumed every part of him, for months; finally let it loose. 

‘Morse,’ Max keeps his arm around his shoulders, rubs his back gently, ‘Morse, _look_ at me.’

Slowly, as though his whole head, his whole skull, is being weighted down by his secrets, dancing tauntingly on the back of his neck for all the world to see, Morse pulls himself upright like a puppet being forced to unbend and the devastated, shattered look on his face is almost enough to break Max where Jago and his singularly unpleasant friends failed to do so; his pupils are flitting dully over Max’s face, as though searching for some trace of condemnation, some righteous anger on George’s behalf, perhaps, but Max has absolutely none to give.

‘I want you to listen,’ he orders, maintaining eye-contact; keeping his voice low and firm. ‘George Fancy’s death was _not_ your fault. Alright? You were working on another case, you had other priorities on your mind and you just lost your temper, that’s all. That’s _all,’_ he comforts; Morse blinks and then his eyes widen in recollection, as though it’s all coming back to him, as though he had forgotten everything else at the time except what he said to George.

But he doesn’t interrupt, either and that gives Max some hope.

‘Now, the only person,’ he shifts a little, keeps a hand on Morse’s shoulder; this is the uncomfortable part, the part the requires going backwards a few days, starting with his own blood on the mortuary floor and ending with gunshots and scattered footprints at a quarry where he was forced to spend an exceedingly uncomfortable night, ‘the _only_ person to blame for George’s death, Morse, is Jago, because he was the one who shot him. Clean in the back,’ he adds, biting out the words with an edge of rage that he had fought hard to keep at bay during George’s post-mortem, unable to stand the dull stare of once-bright eyes. ‘And then that piece of work stood over me at the quarry before you arrived and admitted the whole bloody thing.’

_(‘Seems a shame, really.’ Jago stood in the back of the van, hands in his pockets, staring down at Max, bound and glaring at his feet, ‘to provide the bodies and not let you play with them for once. Maybe we’ll keep you alive and let you watch; let you loose to cry over them. All your little soldiers, Doc,’ he grinned, eyes black and completely empty, ‘That’s if they even come. Morse definitely will, though; he’s that devoted, or just that stupid. At least you can both die together. Not like George, choking all alone on the ground.’_

_The glint of the gun as he held it up before Max’s eyes, watching with a cold satisfaction at the way his gaze widened on seeing it, utterly horrified, choking through the gag on some pointless protest._

_‘Don’t worry, Doc. I’ll make it quick for you.’ He shrugged. ‘If I’m feeling generous.’)_

He absent-mindedly moves his hand over Morse’s back, more to ground himself than anything; redirects his gaze from where it had started to flit away. Flashback, he realises, annoyed with himself and quietly resigned to the fact that this is something that will probably stay with him for a long time to come. Inconvenient, but he’ll just have to do his best to manage.

‘He was told to stand to, wasn’t he?’ he asks in an effort to pull himself back into the present. ‘George, the night he died. Strange told me.’

Morse nods, once, looking caught by something.

‘We think maybe – Jago must have tricked him,’ he explains, haltingly. ‘Showed up with his police-badge, and…’

‘Yes, that certainly fits the impression I got,’ Max agrees, filling in the missing piece of the puzzle that Jago was gleeful enough to provide for him that morning, beneath empty, cold sky, ‘George wasn’t to know any better, poor boy. But you can hardly be blamed for any of that, Morse. None of it is your fault, alright?’ 

Morse’s shoulders drop; his gaze hits the carpet. His chest rises and falls in a large intake of breath, in something like resignation. Concession.

‘I’m sorry.’ He looks to Max then, eyes flitting over his face, taking in his spare glasses, his injuries. ‘I’m so, so sorry for doing this to you, Max, I know it’s not fair –’

‘Oh, Morse, it’s quite alright,’ Max assures, keeping a hand on his lower arm like an anchor and when Morse gives him a look that’s momentarily closer to dubious doubt rather than overwhelming upset, he simply shrugs back, indicating his face. ‘Truth be told, I’m actually rather glad for the distraction.’

It’s true; the alternative, after all, was sitting at home, trying to keep his thoughts away from the other night and avoiding prying, anxious phone-calls from his sisters and what feels like half the hospital staff (save the irritated interrogations from Kemp who’s less interested in his health and more interested in explaining to the Home Office how two complete strangers managed to get into the mortuary and snatch a doctor away from under the noses of hospital security). Appreciated, but not much good for his blood pressure; he’s skittish enough as is. And considering the countless lives lost as a direct result of all this corruption, he honestly counts himself as one of the incredibly lucky ones. 

‘Anyway,’ he consoles, ‘speaking both as a doctor, and as your friend,’ Morse’s head jerks around rather sharply at that, but there are some things that build a bond between men and being rescued by a determined, self-martyring white knight of a sergeant who kept a pair of already-broken glasses safe in his pocket ranks fairly high up the list, ‘if this has been hurting you, then I would much rather you came to me. I don’t much like having to patch you up as often as I do, Morse, but if you come to me with a wound, I’ll do my level best to fix it, or else drag you by the collar into Casualty; whatever it takes to make you better. As far as I’m concerned, this is no different. I gather this is… something you’ve not told anybody else?’

He treads softly, delicately, wary of the minefield of Morse’s emotions; one wrong move and the air could still turn hot with the sound of Morse’s own self-recrimination. Morse, however, confirms it slowly, looking ashamed.

‘I couldn’t say it,’ he admits; Max nods, bringing all his consultation skills to the coffee-table, giving Morse the time and space he needs to release the last thing he’s been holding back, layer upon layer of hidden anguish, concealed for months. ‘I couldn’t tell Inspector Thursday, I couldn’t tell Strange, I couldn’t tell Mr. Bright. Not even Miss Frazil knows. I was a coward,’ he slaps the label on himself without preamble and Max frowns.

‘I don’t think so,’ he protests; the detective-sergeant can be accused of many things and may even argue and answer back against half of them, snappish and shielding, covering himself in a cloak of nettles, but cowardice is most definitely _not_ one of them. ‘I have the truly substantial medical records to prove it.’

Morse’s mouth hooks up in the bare parody of a smile. ‘I just…wish I’d been kinder to him. Better,’ he amends, ‘I could have been _better.’_

Max shrugs his shoulders. ‘A shared regret of many in this world, Morse. I’ve seen my fair share of it at the hospital and down in the mortuary – as I’m sure you have, as a detective.’ He watches Morse’s eyebrows hike up a little, perhaps conceding the point. ‘The sad truth is, there’s nothing more you can do about it. There’s always going to be people in life whom we all find exceedingly irritating – well, you’ve seen my interactions with Professor Kemp. I certainly wouldn’t ever wish death on the fellow, although a very long holiday _might_ be prudent,’ he muses; that startles a weak chuckle out of Morse, wiping his nose with his hand.

Giving him a moment, Max is struck by something and stands. ‘Wait here.’ A quick press of his palm to the back of Morse’s neck and then he wanders over to his bookshelf, running an index finger over the spines of his poetry collection until he’s found Housman’s _Last Poems;_ pulling it out, he skims through the pages, finding what he’s looking for in-between poems nine and ten of the collection.

‘Here,’ he brings it back to show Morse: a polaroid photo. ‘This was at one of the trivia nights, late last summer; the bartender was playing about with his camera and took this for us. I was going to give it to Trewlove, but she left before I was able.’

He offers it to Morse, who takes it, sits beside him once more as the detective takes in the image: Max, sitting with Strange, Trewlove and George, all beaming at the camera, a backdrop against bickering over film-stars and who sang what, carefree of an evening. What a difference a year makes.

‘He’s holding her hand under the table.’ Max gestures to George with a slight chuckle, grinning with fingers wrapped around his glass, three sheets to the wind. ‘I don’t think he let go once. Always following her to the bar, grabbing the seat beside her; he was doggedly determined. Watching him with her was rather like watching _you_ chase up a lead.’

A smile twitches the side of Morse’s mouth, just briefly; there and gone in a split-second and Max quietly goes in for the strictly metaphorical kill.

‘Perhaps…’ he murmurs, ‘you can simply accept that you and George were never going to be best friends – although if you did ever have anything in common, it was a tendency towards hurling yourselves headfirst into challenging situations. You’ve never listened to either me or Inspector Thursday when it comes to your own safety and George was exceedingly headstrong – never the sort of person who allowed himself to be easily swayed. Not by anyone. Not even you, Morse.’

Morse’s expression has become a mask over his face; Max takes advantage of the gap by tugging into his pocket for a clean handkerchief, hands it over.

‘Let him go, Morse,’ he advises gently, ‘You’ve found his killer, you’ve laid it to rest; you’ve done splendidly. If you do want to do right by George, then do him the courtesy of remembering that he was brave. Alright? It doesn’t do him, or you, any good to keep torturing yourself like this. You don’t have to hurt yourself over this anymore.’

Morse’s face shifts, minutely; his eyes become foggy and he looks down for a moment, blinking rapidly, moisture creating trails on his cheeks, tossing the photograph onto the table as though he’s been burned. Max watches him slowly come undone, the long fingers of one hand splaying distractedly over his face before forming a tight fist over his mouth, eyes squeezing themselves tightly shut, blunted sounds of distress escaping. Bowing his head, his shoulders start to tremble, his face contorted with anguish and immediately, Max reaches for him.

‘It’s alright,’ he exclaims softly, wrapping both arms around Morse as he pitches sideways against him like a fallen building, both hands covering his face as though defending himself from a blow. ‘I know, it’s alright. It’s alright,’ he keeps up a steady stream of assurances, over the tremble of Morse’s shoulders, one hand cradling his head as though he can protect him from everything the last week has put them through. ‘Get it out, get it all out, it’s alright. You’ve done wonderfully and it’s not your fault. _Morse,’_ he dips his head, hand carding through his hair, ‘it’s _not_ your fault.’

He repeats the litany over and over, rubs Morse’s shoulder, his scalp; stays upright for him for a while, his arm constantly shifting with the sound of the other man’s ricocheting, frantic breath. The front of his shirt grows steadily damper; he watches, over Morse’s head, the shadows shift over his garden outside, afternoon sunlight defiant against shade.

*

When Morse wakes, he’s tucked up on Max’s achingly comfortable sofa, a cushion beneath his head and the throw from the sofa-back placed over him. He lies there for a moment, letting himself settle, looking around at the friendly surroundings of Max’s home: the smiling photographs on the mantlepiece, the fireplace and the small television, takes them in properly this time as objects rather than hard points of focus, lets his brain catch up with him for a moment. Feels the curl of mortification in his stomach, tempered only by the memory of Max’s gentle reassurances as he encouraged him to lie down once he was all sobbed out, pushing his hair back, encouraging him to rest.

And he _did_ rest, that’s the remarkable thing; hasn’t slept so well in months, his body more languid, more relaxed right now than it has done in almost a year. Dozing on chairs, at desks, was rather like an extra punishment for himself, he acknowledges that now; a perverse kind of self-torture for the fact that he was alive to enjoy everyday luxuries that he didn’t deserve, and George – whose chagrined, disappointed expression that he always seemed to cause was stamped behind his eyelids _– wasn’t._

He’s still there, as he so often is – but it’s softer now, the image of him. Fading away like smoke even as Morse focuses on him, leaving with a shrug and a wink, hands stuffed in his pockets as he saunters away carelessly. _No fun hanging ‘round **your** head, Sarge. Got better places to be. _

Morse chuffs, rubbing his hair back with both hands, the shock of George’s voice – so vivid just then, so _him_ – slipping through him and away, leaving him with the Polaroid photo on the coffee-table, a moment of the life he lived captured in the bright, clashing colours of the camera. He wipes his nose and his blotchy cheeks with Max’s handkerchief, still twisted in his fingers, lets himself breathe. The lounge door that leads out to Max’s back-garden is open and a cool breeze skims in, disturbing the taller plants of the doctor’s greenery; the year is turning, the summer is finally ending.

‘Max?’ Morse calls softly, sitting up, his voice hoarse in the still of the cottage; outside, there’s the scrape of a chair being pulled back before Max himself shuffles into view, a book clutched between his hands. Morse twists his lip, unhappy to see that slight, lingering limp in his movements, a souvenir of the quarry, but Max greets him cheerfully as he steps inside, pulling the door shut behind him.

‘Ah, hello. Welcome back. Sleep well?’

‘Yes, thanks. Um…how long was I…?’ Morse glances at the clock on the wall; glances at his own watch, cutting into his wrist.

‘Oh, just over two hours,’ Max replies with easy preamble, sounding so much like himself in a professional capacity whenever he’s asked the time of death for a body that Morse can’t help an odd sort of smile at the familiarity.

‘Sorry,’ he offers sheepishly, rubbing his neck; Max waves a hand around, coming to sit beside him on the sofa, entirely at his ease. He’s changed his shirt, Morse notices with considerable embarrassment, but doesn’t comment. 

‘Not to worry. How are you feeling?’ The question is asked with an expectation of any and all replies, his scars shining a defiant kind of silver in late afternoon light and Morse nods. 

‘Better,’ he says, honest, rubbing his face, ‘bit of a mess, but…mm.’ He nods up at Max, sees something ease and shift behind his face, as though it’s all the answer he needs. ‘Thanks, Max.’

It comes out sounding more vulnerable than he’d like, but Max simply smiles gently, a dissolution of the heavy concern behind his eyes for the first time since a few hours prior when Morse dragged himself to his door, the comedown after the triumph settling over his shoulders, instead sick with guilt over George and sicker still with worry for Max, who could so easily have been next, every fear like water oozing through the cracks in a weakening dam wall right before it broke down completely. And he _did_ break – right into Max’s arms, held together only by the same careful hands that delve into the dead without a second thought, tend tea-roses on a weekend and once saved a child’s life from the bite of a bullet.

‘I…’ he’s unsure how to explain himself into the silence that follows, that seems deliberate on the doctor’s part, almost inviting – he’s aware that it’s Max’s cottage, and private as well, but _still…_ ‘I hope I didn’t cause you any – discomfort.’

Max shakes his head, his expression unbearably generous. ‘None at all, Morse. Happy to help. And before you ask, rest assured my Hippocratic Oath compels me to silence on such matters as these, so I won’t be gaily shouting it from the Oxford rooftops, either.’

Morse manages a grateful grin at the image, bowled over by these simple cares; by the memory of before, of Max referring to him as a ‘friend’ rather than simply a ‘colleague’ – but then perhaps that was to be expected in the circumstances, all remaining formality fading away between them in the space of a single afternoon, DeBryn the pathologist simply becoming Max, a confidante. It had moved something in Morse, something beneath the swimming ache of guilt, the _pain_ – that, and Max’s remarkable, steadfast ability to stand tenacious against the wolves that have been snapping at Morse’s heels with memories of George Fancy for months and simply, firmly shoo them all away.

It could have all been so different, he thinks, all their bodies on the floor, Max’s among them, his witty and shameless tongue silenced; his clever, piercing eyes dulled over – but it _wasn’t._ It isn’t.

‘Now,’ Max invites, his voice enough to distract and cajole Morse away from the dark path his thoughts have kept treading towards in recent days. ‘I’m not sure what the rest of your afternoon threatens, but can I offer you a cup of tea and maybe something to eat at the very least? You’ll need refuelling after that. Cheese and pickle alright?’ He stands, offers Morse his hand. ‘Comfort food, I find, in such circumstances as these.’

Right now, nothing sounds better, or more inviting. Morse nods, feeling a gurgle in his suddenly cavernous stomach; wiping his face, he accepts Max’s hand and lets himself be pulled to his feet, his legs wobbling in a slightly sleepy gait as the blanket falls to the floor, wrapping around his shins. Immediately, Max reaches out to steady him by the arm, keeps him upright.

‘There you are – I’ve got you,’ he reassures, hand calming on the corner of his elbow, stopping him from tripping over his own exhaustion. ‘I’ve got you.’

He smiles up at him, slightly battered and more than a little benevolent and maybe it’s just because Morse is worn down to his bones and therefore his usually fortress-high inhibitions have been lowered – or perhaps it’s just gratitude, with, quite possibly, a nagging protectiveness. Or maybe it’s just because it’s Max, and it’s him and despite them both being, according to Strange anyway, ‘a prickly pair of buggers – like a couple of hedgehogs,’ he also knows that the doctor is one of a scant handful of people who make him feel completely grounded, completely secure.

So, when Max pulls his hand back, Morse takes a chance and slowly wraps both his arms around him, half-braced for that moment when he may well be pushed away. Yet Max, whose cleverness and compassion entwines together so carefully, does nothing of the sort; in fact, beyond making a small, surprised noise that sounds kind, more than anything else, he says nothing at all. Instead, he simply brings his own hands up and under Morse’s arms and around his shoulders, enveloping him carefully and pulling him closer against his sturdy gait, palm reaching up to cradle the back of Morse’s head.

They stay like that for a moment, Morse breathing out over his shoulder, enjoying the calm of being held by someone he trusts implicitly and feeling safer than he has done in days, months maybe, the ticking of the clock their only companion. It’s peaceful; nice.

‘Do you feel alright?’ Max asks eventually, the quiet sound of his breath comforting; not mocking, just checking. Morse nods over his shoulder; steps back to take in Max again, considerably bruised and perhaps, just like Morse himself, more in need of company right now than he’s willing to admit. The doctor raises his eyebrows; his scars shimmer where the stitches were taken out, left to heal and lending him a slightly piratical expression that’s immediately softened by his manner; the unintentional affectation of mad scientist to a man who is anything but, who holds his Hippocratic Oath to the hilt and abhors the death of children and holds Morse together so carefully.

‘I’m just really glad _you_ are,’ Morse tells him bluntly, a line as sincere as any verse in any poem he could have given – but right now, it’s the only truth that he _can_ give. Max chuffs; hands still on his arms, he gives him a careful shake. 

‘Why don’t you go and wash your face,’ he suggests, rather bracingly, ‘Mop your eyes. I’ll put the kettle on, although perhaps you might be able to take a little brandy first? I feel you’ve earned it.’

Morse can only nod, all too aware of the crusted, dry saltiness on his own cheeks and the sharp desire for a drink, as well as the simple need to stay close to Max’s side for just a while longer.

 _‘Shoulder the sky, my lad and drink your ale,’_ he manages, the kind of _yes_ that Max approves of and with that, he goes to clean himself up.

*

**Author's Note:**

> Both Morse and Max quote A.E. Housman's 'IX' from his collection of 'Last Poems.'


End file.
